What's lost inside
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: Idk about the title. Summary: Aftermath of Stan and his amnesia after weirdmaggedon. Up to you if this continues.
1. HI!

**Yeah...Tw: Stan Pines. Insomnia. Stan is just really angsty.  
**

* * *

Stanley tossed and turned in the night, feeling suffocated by the fancy new bed he was attempting to sleep on.

After weirdmaggedon, as the others described it, a lot of things had happened. They were trying to fix up the shack once more, most of the items like his old bed, getting replaced. He sighed as he sat up, slipping his feet onto the floor.

Things had been...strange. Since he woke up in that field. Not bad, just peculiar. Like that feeling of Deja Vu you get after doing something, even though you have no recollection of doing it before. The people who claimed to be his family told him that he was a hero, that he had saved the world. He had no idea what they meant by that, but it felt...wrong. As if they were lying to him, but for some reason, he knew they weren't.

It helped that as the weeks came by, more and more memories flew back to him. He remembered the children, Mabel and Dipper. Mabel's fondness for her pig, Waddles, and Dipper's interest in the paranormal. He recalled bad soap opera's, and days filled with fake smiles and slippery fingers. Although, he didn't tell the others about the last bit. It didn't seem like something he would do, so he stayed silent about those things. Mabel had told him he was a 'grumpy old man marshmallow' at some point. Strangely, that did make him feel better.

Yet that man, the one who claimed to be his twin brother, remained elusive in his memory. He had no recollection of most of his life. Other than the occasional nightmare, which Stanley was starting to believe weren't nightmares... _Runrunrunrun, no! Nononon-Bang! Blood, pain, ouch, okay not doing that, AAAH!_

Stanley shuddered as he padded out of the room. He didn't want to dwell on that.

Speaking of that man- Stanford. Stanley really wasn't sure what to make of him. He would often speak with the kids, who were long gone by now, in private. The day they left he had whispered something to both of them that Stanley couldn't hear from where he was standing. He had a feeling he could eavesdrop if he wanted to, but doing so to them...it felt wrong. No, worse than wrong, it felt _bad._ So Stan stood, watching.

Now he and the six-fingered man were both living in the shack, Stanford doing his best to keep it together each day when Stanley still didn't remember him. For a while, Stanford wouldn't let him do much of anything, worried he would get hurt or lost. He had barely started letting Stanley drive again. Stanley had wished Stanford had let him do so earlier, he felt safer in that car. More grounded.

If only he could remember _why._

The days passed by in a blur, one day nearly the same as the next. The only thing that changed was the deep guilt building inside of him as he saw the hope in Stanford's eyes grow smaller and duller each day.

Stanley pulled open the door to his room and stepped out. He could use a drink.

Or two.

...

When he pulled out the soda from the fridge, he grieved the fact that they didn't have anything stronger. For a moment there, he could have sworn there was a six-pack _somewhere_.

Guess he was just getting confused again.

Stanley moved to sit down at the table, but something stopped him. Stanley pushed the chair back into place and his brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to make sense of it all. It was almost like his mind was trying to follow some sort of muscle memory, but that didn't make sense.

Either way, he didn't want to sit at the table. Rather, he let his feet guide him instead, his tired limbs tense as they led him outside. He saw the car and smiled.

Yeah, that's better.

He closed the car door quietly and laid back in the seat. He just felt _better_ in here. As if that's where he belonged. Not some fancy bed. He cracked open the can and relaxed while his eyes gazed outward unblinkingly. He stayed like that until he fell asleep, his hand automatically wrapping around a bat he had found the other night.

Much better.

* * *

 **I have a lot of stories, I know, but if you want this to continue, just ask, and I'll try. I'm going to go update as much as I can now.**

 **Stan: Yeah, you do that, you procrastinator.**

 **Ford: What makes her a procrastinator?**

 **Stan: Uh, she procrastinates? I thought you were the smart one.**

 **Me: Hehe, he is. But your right, I am a huge procrastinator. Sorry.**


	2. Hey, how ya doin?

***cries* I love you, reviewers, you honestly make my day. Thanks to you just readers too! I love you both equally.  
**

* * *

Stanford Pines hated this time of the day.

Morning.

Morning meant a lot of things. That he had to face reality, that he had work to do, that he was already wasting time. Morning meant he hadn't been strong enough to stay awake, that he had fallen asleep, against his better judgment. Morning meant he had survived.

Morning meant he was alive.

Despite this, Stanford Pines woke up every morning.

He blinked awake that morning, his eyes old brown eyes reflexively sliding shut again when the first rays of light fell through the window and onto his face. The light was only amplified by his glasses, which he had failed to take off. Again.

As his mind woke up, the rest of him shifted into a sitting position and he quickly took off his glasses and rubbed at his temples. A sharp pain shot through his head when he had sat up. He knew it to be the beginning of a migraine.

This was starting up to be a very bad morning.

...

Ford, after stretching and doing a hundred push-ups {old habit, he didn't get into shape drawing pictures, after all.} He quickly changed, wincing when the sweaters chaffed at the still raw skin. He thought they were scarring over nicely enough. They shouldn't cause him any additional pain after being fully recovered, at the very least.

Swiftly pulling on his trenchcoat, he walked steadily, but quickly out his bedroom door. {He slept in his study}

His headache was getting worse very fast, and he nearly tripped down the stairs as he raced to the bathroom where the medication was. _I should really have a bottle or two in my room._

Ford sighed in relief when he flung open the bathroom door and almost ripped off the medicine cabinet. He sifted through the various medications and shook his head as he gritted his teeth.

Ibuprofen was _definitely_ not strong enough. Not for him, not even if he took the entire bottle. Surely Stan had _something_ stronger.

Stan! _SHOOT._

Ford forgot his headache as he made his way to Stan's bedroom. Every morning, Ford made sure to wake up his brother.

A head injury was very serious, after all. And Stan still didn't remember everything. He often woke up confused.

It struck Ford like a physical wound every time he saw that lost look inside Stan's somehow older, yet strangely innocent eyes. It made the guilt weighing on his shoulder's even worse, somehow. Like everyday Stan didn't make any improvement, it was a failure on Ford's part, another brick of defeat being laid on his back as he struggled to stand.

He was used to it, it didn't matter. _He didn't matter._ He had mattered for sixty years, now it was Stan's turn.

Ford pushed his way down the hallway and knocked once on the door. It was funny because he was only happy when he _didn't_ receive an answer. The days Stan woke up, unsure of where he was, or what was going on, he was already awake, and would always say 'come in.'

The days were silence greeted him were generally good days for the both of them. Usually.

Ford, after getting no reply, opened the door to wake up his twin { _Please remember me, please, please, LEE PLEASE}_ Ford stopped.

He stopped breathing, he stopped thinking, he stopped feeling.

Stan was _gone._

Ford was suddenly in overdrive when a rush of adrenaline {fear} pulsed through him {convienently quieting his headache} and he booked it out of the empty bedroom. His trenchcoat flew behind him as he ran to the kitchen.

Okay, so maybe he was overreacting, to some. But most didn't understand how _dangerous_ Gravity Falls could be! Even after the events of last summer, the forest still held all of the previous anomalies that had dragged him there in the first place and most of them were dangerous to someone as uneducated to them as Stan.

No, he wasn't overreacting at all. Maybe somewhere else, anywhere else, but not here.

Ford burst into the kitchen and his hand went to the light switch. Which should have been a sign in and of itself.

Empty. Ford's breath picked up speed and he worked to steady it as he checked the armchair, it wasn't uncommon for Stan to be there after a restless night.

The weathered armchair was equally vacant and Ford's fear was hardening into something worse.

Panic.

Fear can be beaten into submission, fear can be reasoned with, willed away. It can be ignored.

Panic was uncontrollable. A wild force that made one do illogical things.

Ford needed logic. Ford without logic could cause {another} apocalypse.

He did his best to ease his fears, or at least quiet them by continuing to search. _Logically_ , if Stan wasn't there, he was _somewhere else._ All Ford had to do was find him.

...

Ford had searched _everywhere._ He had been hoping that Stan had just gotten lost inside the large cabin's many rooms and hallways, as long as he was anywhere _but_ outside. If he had gotten outside he could be _anywhere._

Of course, he wasn't in the house. Ford should have known. He didn't have good luck enough for that.

Ford's large, six-fingered hands grasped the doorknob and he stared at them for a moment. For the longest time, he blamed his extra fingers for nearly every unfortunate happening in his life.

He didn't do that anymore, he had no one and nothing to blame except himself and his stubborn pride.

He opened the door and stepped outside. The air was warm and welcoming, the sun shining brightly in the sky. It was the exact opposite of how Stanford Pines was feeling, almost as if it were taunting him.

He really, _really,_ hated mornings.

He grimaced as he stepped out and his eyes gazed outward, looking for any sign of his brother. For any clue as to where he had gone. His eyes landed on the car.

Well, where the car was _supposed_ to be. Right now it was empty, fresh tire-tracks in its place.

 _STANLEY WHAT THE KARABAST?!  
_

* * *

 **... was this any good? I'm sorry if it wasn't, I really can't tell. I was talking to one of my friends, and I let her read one of my stories, and I didn't really like the one she read, I thought parts of it was _okay_ but she told me she loved the parts I hated and honestly I can't be trusted to judge my own work. **

**Stan: Eh.**

 **Ford: Eh, what?**

 **Stan: Just...eh.**

 **Me: You are useless to me as a critic. Go away.**

 **Stan *leaves***

 **Ford: I thought it was...eventful. Where did Stanley go? Not just now, in the story.**

 **Me: I have an idea, but I won't know until I write it, will I? Or if I write it...review if you want more, I guess. Love ya'll.**


	3. Do you like Jelly Beans? I do!

**Fun fact: this story is called 'suicidal Stan' in my doc manager.** **It has nothing to do with suicide. I should probably change it...**

 ***shrug* ONWARDS!  
**

* * *

Stanley couldn't tell you why he did it. He couldn't tell you why he did anything.

Yet, for some reason, he had driven down to town. It was like an impulse- no. It was more natural than random desire. It was like it was necessary for his...survival. Just like how others needed books or company, Stanley needed to drive. Driving always calmed him down.

Driving also brought the most strange notions and thoughts. _Go faster, floor it, move! No, not far enough, keep going._

It felt so _familiar_ and that was just so _annoying_ because he had no idea how to explain it. Not even to himself.

Stanley, after he had woken up to the soft sunlight gently pulling him into consciousness, had sat for a moment, before his hand twitched toward the stick shift. {The keys were already in the ignition- now when had he done that?}

He bit his lip, his eyes glancing nervously at the shack. Stanford.

Stanley didn't want to stress out his frie- brother any more than he already was.

Yet, the road was pulling him ever closer, a tug in his bones he couldn't describe as anything other than a _need._ How had he ever settled down long enough to start the shack? He felt so much more...comfortable here.

That's when he stopped thinking and shifted the stick to 'drive' and floored it down the road. He smiled as he rolled down the window and the clean morning air ruffled his unbrushed hair, all of his worries whipping away with the wind.

...

Stanley made it to town. He parked beside a large statue of the town's founder. Supposedly the eight- something's president of the United States, or something nerdy like that. He didn't really want to think too hard about it.

Parking in {probably, he didn't really know} illegal spot beside the statue, Stanley quickly pulled the keys from the ignition and slipped them underneath the seat. He didn't really expect anyone here to steal his baby anyway.

He was about to step out to do...something. When he realized he still wasn't really dressed. He wasn't sure if a T-shirt and shorts were really acceptable {for him} around here.

Shrugging, he pulled open the car's door anyway. At least he wasn't in, oh I dunno, a tank top and boxers', now that would be embarrassing.

Stanley slipped out and leaned back against the car as he stepped out, closing the door with his back. He stayed there a moment, taking in the morning. The sun was still rising- he had woken up early {probably from sleeping in a car} and he wished he had done so more often. The sun rising was beautiful against the backdrop of so many trees. The air was crisp and clean, refreshing after an entire night in a car, and it made him smile involuntarily.

It was peaceful.

Stanley wondered why the feeling seemed so foreign to him.

Shaking off the errant thought before his feeling of unease could grow, his gaze was attracted to the statue, or more accurately, to the ledge the statue was on.

Was it normal to want to step onto a ledge? Stanley could feel his legs pulling him there.

Well, he was already this far- might as well see where this indulging of the impulses would bring him. Stanley, without further ado, hoped up onto the ledge and watched as the milling crowd in the early morning began crowding around him. Most of them called out to him in joy- they had been stopping by the shack to check on him ever since they had learned of his insomnia.

They missed the man of mystery they all had grown to love. Did this mean he was back? Did he finally remember them?

Stanley knew what they were thinking and he shook his head to them all, although he smiled in appreciation. "Sorry all, Mr. Mystery is still a mystery to me- I just came ta tell ya a story!"

He didn't know where the words came from, but they slipped swiftly and smoothly from his lips and soon enough, the entire crowd was entranced by his impromptu story of a woman finding adventure in the great wide somewhere. It helped that he kept slipping into fake accents, giving each character their own persona. He surprised himself at times, who knew he was such a good voice actor?

The story concluded with clapping from the crowd and Stan grinned at them, a pleasant rush of joy flowing from his spine to his fingertips. That had been fun, he found. He loved the way they all seemed so _ensnared_ like he had gone fishing and had them all on the hook, only letting go when he felt fit to do so.

It just felt so _right._ It got even better when he got to pick up all the money they must have dropped on the ground. {It's not like he had brought a collecting tin or anything! They had just...forgotten it, he supposed. He wasn't dumb enough to remind them if they couldn't see it on the ground, it was everywhere!}

Just then, as he dumped his winnings {that he totally wasn't expecting} into his car, something felt settled inside...him. Like he had done well that day and had earned a break.

Breakfast. Stanley's stomach growled right on cue. His grin {which hadn't left since his incredibly successful escapade} widened. Frell yeah.

...

The Diner wasn't all that full that morning, it was still early. The waitress- he couldn't remember her name- _It's Susan!_... _Oh, yeah! That cat lady._.. _Oh, you remembered!_... _How could I forget?-_ Took his order and he leaned back in the seat and gazed contentedly out the window, watching the locals as they walked about, living their lives.

Stanley sighed. He wished-

No! Wishing is useless...

Stanley's brow furrowed. Where had that thought come from...? Why couldn't he- no. No bad thoughts today, today was a good day. Stanley shifted again and let his eyes wander around the little cafe. Perhaps he'd remember something more...

...

After a satisfying breakfast, Stanley stepped back out into the town's square and glanced at his car. He felt the need to run to it again, but in the same way, he didn't.

So many feelings, so many questions.

Stanley pushed them away once again and padded quietly to his car, hands behind his back, eyes to the ground. He took a deep breath as he opened the StanleyMobile's door and sat in the seat once again, clicking the key into place. He turned the ignition once more and changed gears. Stanford would be missing him.

Couldn't have that, could he?

* * *

 **I guess I'll leave the real emotional confrontation for the next chapter, meant to do it now, yet...I didn't. Sorry.**

 **Stan: You are so _cruel_. You draw it out on purpose, don't you? Leave them all in suspense? **

**Ford: It does seem very...calculated.**

 **Stan: Don't make it nerdy, Poindexter.**

 **Ford: Says the man who wouldn't stop rambling about his car, I could barely keep up with you!**

 **Stan: OH! So the 12phd's do have a weakness, eh?**

 **Ford: Oh shut up.**


	4. Um---hot chocolate anybody?

**I wholeheartedly agree. Rotten egg jellybeans sound awful. Well, I hope you enjoy this next installment! Tw: Um...Stan is in pain. ? Also, I said 'insomnia' instead of 'amnesia' in the last chapter- oops. Funny that no one even mentioned it.  
**

* * *

The drive back to Stanford's cabin hadn't been nearly as peaceful as the drive to town.

Stanley tried to relax, yet somehow it only seemed to make the growing pit of anxiety in his stomach worse. Halfway back to the shack and he was trembling. Lightly, yes, but trembling all the same. His fingers twitched on the wheel, tapping nervously, and his left foot {the one he didn't need to drive with} was bouncing even faster than his fingers were.

He figured he should pull over when he couldn't breathe.

Stanley let his head fall against the wheel as he parked on the side of the road. His breath came in short gasps. What was going on? Why was he freaking out?! He was just going back to the house, back to the shack! Back home! To...to...Stanford.

Home, he was going home to Stanford.

The thought bounced around in Stanley's head, so much so that he didn't notice as the trembling throughout all his limbs lessened and his breathing was beginning to even out.

He was going home, to Stanford.

He was going home, to Stanford!

He was going home!

 _Of course, I'm going home!_ Stanley thought. _It only makes sense! It's not like I was leaving forever...just a drive into town. That's it!_

Yet it had felt like so much more. It had felt so familiar and _normal_ , yet it _wasn't_ normal. The shack was _normal._ Stanford was normal. Stanley groaned and curled up into the seat. All of these conflictions were making his head hurt.

Ow.

Okay, his head _really_ hurt. It was pounding as if someone were taking a hammer to it, consistently beating him in the back of his head.

And somehow that thought was familiar to. He shuddered and pulled himself deeper into the seat as the pain worsened. _Nonono! Run! RUN FASTER. Freak, no, no! Please no PLEASE!_

 _Go, go, go, keeping moving, please don't hurt me, please no, please I didn't do it, no. No..._

Stanley groaned, his fingers clenching the side of his head, tugging on his hair as if ripping it out would make the pain go away. Would make the _thoughts_ go away. His eyes were clenched shut, his teeth grinding against each other. Any pain was better than this. Anything.

 _Anything! Please, I'll do anything! Don't leave me- please don't leave me...please..._

The pain was getting even worse, and now he regretted his words, the phantom pains ripping through his torso. His arms, his legs, were _not_ better. They were _worse._ Tears were running freely off the side of his face, but he didn't really care at the moment.

The scars were old. They were done with. They were healed. Stanley knew they existed. He didn't know _why,_ but why didn't matter because they were healed, they were _gone._

Yet they felt as if each had been delivered in that very moment, that very second and it _hurt._

 _PLEASE! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!_

Stanley felt everything burn, even his mouth, which felt like it had been shredded with a cheese grater.

When his shoulder caught on fire, he couldn't handle it anymore.

 _Please...please. No more..._

 _Please never got me anywhere kid._

Darkness shrouded his vision and he sank into it willingly.

...

Ford's eyes found the car on the road and his body visibly slumped in relief.

He had been following the road down to the town. He could try and track the car, what with the fresh tire tracks and all, but what was the point? Where else would Stanley have gone? There was really only one road up to the shack...so Ford followed it. Logical. It was logical.

Logical or not, Ford had been running down the road. He tried to tell himself that it was alright, that Stan was probably hanging out with the locals, yet his mind gave him no respite from the many possibilities it conjured. And when I say many, I mean many. Everything from Stan going grocery shopping to the pterodactyl scooping him up off the ground and eating him for breakfast.

Ford had a good imagination. When it wanted to work at least.

When the StanelyMobile came into view, Ford _didn't_ sob in relief, he didn't. And no one could prove otherwise. Running the rest of the way, Ford bit his lip with nervousness.

Something was wrong.

He crept closer, his hand straying towards his gun automatically. Not that he wanted to shoot his brother _not again._ But if that wasn't Stanley in there or if something had hurt his brother...

It was going to pay.

Ford got close enough to peer through the tinted windshield and jumped into action. The gun wasn't really necessary at the moment, Stan seemed to have passed out. It took all of Ford's self-control not to scream.

The portal had one thing going for it, releasing emotion was as easy as pulling out his gun and killing his dinner. Ford struggled to open the door until he realized it was locked.

Crap.

Pulling away, Ford stared at the car as he tried to keep it together. _Stan is in there, so I need to get inside._ Ford did his best to think through his haze of panic. _Come on! You've done this before! It's easy._ Ford took a deep breath.

He could do this. Instead of pounding on the glass, begging Stan to wake up like he wanted to, Ford circled around to the trunk of the car. Stan had a spare key in there before, right? He never locked his trunk. {He didn't really want to think of why that was.} Ford pulled the trunk door up and flinched away when it nearly knocked his glasses off his face.

Ford's mouth set into a determined frown as he concentrated. He recalled there being a secret compartment for the key, something Stan had made himself years ago. When he found out {Post weirdmaggedon} any congratulations for making something like that were lost on his brother since Stan didn't actually recall making it. The compartment had been a surprise for both of them, although later on, Stan remembered that he indeed did make it.

 _For my spare keys! I remember that. I had gotten locked out of my car and decided that breaking a window wasn't worth it, so I made a copy of my own key- don't ask where I learned that I don't know, and I broke into my own car. So afterward I had two keys and made the little storage thingy for it so no one could steal it._

Ford shook his head fondly at the time. Stan had sounded so proud of himself. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Ford quickly pressed the nearly invisible button that opened up the compartment and snatched up the keys _thank Thor they're here_ and turned to open the driver's door.

It swung open and it was only years worth of relying on reflexes that Ford managed to catch his brother before he sprawled to the ground.

Ford caught him and carefully pushed him onto the passenger seat. Ford's mouth was set in a determined frown. He wanted to make sure Stan was alright, yet it seemed a better idea to take him back home and make sure he was okay there. Ford had more supplies at the house anyway- that being said he didn't really look at Stan at that moment, too busy with trying to not crash the car.

If he was being honest, even when driving was something he did every day- he had never been very good at it. The car jerked uncomfortably and Stan cried out in his sleep. Sleep? What had happened, exactly? Ford's foot tensed as he made the car go faster.

This was _definitely_ a bad day. Ford only hoped it didn't get worse.

* * *

 **...**

 **Stan *stares at the story blankly***

 **Ford: WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY BROTHER I SWEAR- *reaches for his gun***

 **Me *backs away, eyes wide*: Woah! Calm down, this is all for the better- I swear!**

 **Ford *glares at me*: If you hurt him anymore...you know what?! I want to switch. Give me the angst and him the fluff. *Stance softens* Please? Just this once.**

 **Me *fearing for my life: I was planning on that anyway! Ahem. So yeah, I'll do it.**

 **Stan *blinks back into reality*: What's going on?**

 **Ford *attacks his brother with a hug in his excitement*: Yes! Finally!**

 **Stan *confused as he's tackled to the ground*: What on earth...?**


End file.
